


Just Like in the Movies

by Deastar



Series: White Collar - Classic Slash Clichés [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Neal affects shock and hurt.  "Ridiculous?  Peter, that's our love story, and every word of it is true!"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like in the Movies

**Author's Note:**

> To make stupid writing mistakes is human; to have a great beta, divine. I learned that from the extremely forgiving and helpful [](http://laulan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://laulan.livejournal.com/)**laulan**. This fic is part of a set of five stories based on classic slash clichés – in this case, pretending to be a couple! This fic was written before 1x7 "Free Fall" aired.
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Russian translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627289) by Elga!

Neal sets his magazine down on the side table and closes his eyes as he lies back on the deck chair, smiling as the sun beats down on his skin and the sound of the waves washes over him.

"There is no place in the world I'd rather be than here," he says.

There's a scoff from off to his left, and Neal opens one eye to see Peter giving him an extremely dubious eyebrow from his own deck chair.

"There's nowhere on the whole planet you'd rather be than on a gay couples' cruise?" Peter asks, and Neal smiles at him beatifically and replies, with a hint of reproach, "There's no place on earth I'd rather be than on a gay couples' cruise _with you_. Pumpkin," he adds, just for the fun of watching that muscle in Peter's cheek twitch.

"You guys are the cutest," the balding man to Neal's right says, with a wistful note in his voice. "How long have you been together?"

"Oh, just a few months," Neal says, turning the full force of his smile on his neighbor. "But we've known each other for years and years. We met – sparks flew; he chased me, I chased him a little back. Then we were separated for three years, and just barely managed to stay in touch. But a few months ago, he brought me out of a really bad place, and we've been together ever since. It was meant to be," Neal concludes, and he can _feel_ Peter rolling his eyes behind Neal's back.

"Isn't that right?" he prods Peter, who sighs and says, "You failed to mention that the dark place I pulled you out of was a Federal Supermax prison."

"What a sense of humor!" Neal exclaims, in a blisteringly saccharine tone of voice, turning to lay an affectionate hand on Peter's arm.

"How did you meet?" Neal's neighbor asks.

"Through work," Peter says shortly. He's wearing hideous Bermuda shorts in flagrant violation of Neal's rule stating that if people are going to think that he's sleeping with Peter, Peter is required to dress in a way that doesn't force them to question Neal's good judgment and sanity.

"And what do you do?" the neighbor continues, looking avidly curious – Neal saw the poor guy's partner doze off three hours ago, and it's obvious he's bored and a little envious.

"Oh, Peter is an expert in security systems," Neal explains, perfectly truthfully, "mostly banks, but sometimes art galleries, museums, things like that. And I'm… an art restorer."

Peter snorts, and Neal's neighbor looks over at him curiously. Neal narrows his eyes in a way that means "you made this mess, now you get to clean it up."

"I just mean that you're being too modest," Peter says, with a slightly frightening smile that's clearly meant to be adoring. He turns to Neal's neighbor and adds, "He's actually quite an artist in his own right."

Neal beams, and says, "You're so sweet, honey," to cover up the sound of Peter muttering, "a _con_ artist, more like it."

It's pretty clear to Neal that Peter is at the end of his patience, so Neal politely and apologetically hustles them off of the sundeck and back into their cabin.

Peter gives him an exasperated look. "I've heard you tell that story three times now, and each time is more ridiculous than the last."

Neal affects shock and hurt. "Ridiculous? Peter, that's our _love story_, and every word of it is true!"

"That's what terrifies me," Peter mutters, and Neal grins.

"Any progress on the case?" he asks, and Peter glares.

"Oh, you mean that stuff we're actually supposed to be doing when you're busy turning my life into a Lifetime original movie?"

"Yeah, that," Neal agrees comfortably. Peter's glare intensifies, but he can't keep it up, and finally he sighs and sinks down to sit on the bed.

"No," he says glumly. "They must be smuggling the bills onto the ship somehow, and then offloading them at the next port, but I can't figure out where they're keeping the cash in the meantime, and so far all of the passengers I've talked to seem to be legit."

"Looks like we'll have to break into the captain's office," Neal suggests enthusiastically. "If we get caught, we can start making out, so that they'll think we're just horny, instead of government agents. That's how they do it in all the movies."

Peter just stares at Neal for a moment, then shakes it off.

"You don't have to keep saying stuff like that," he says, rolling his eyes. "We're alone, and the cabin's not bugged."

Neal gives Peter a look. It's a long, speaking look.

"Oh," Peter says, looking at Neal with surprise. "Really?"

"Really," Neal confirms, extremely amused.

"I can't believe I didn't know that," Peter says, shaking his head and looking bemused. "I know your shoe size. I know your favorite brand of chewing gum. I know what grade you got on your eighth grade biology project! How did I not know about this?" he asks.

"I still think I deserved an A+," Neal opines.

"It was a glorified ant farm," Peter scoffs, "not exactly Nobel Prize material." Then he does a double-take. "See?" he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Neal. "I know that! How did I not know this?"

Neal laughs, and shoots Peter a look through lowered lashes, leaning forward. "You think it would have helped you catch me, if you'd known?"

"You never know what information could be relevant," Peter says stubbornly.

"Would you have tried the old honey trap, Agent Burke?" Neal murmurs, grinning. "Tempting your prey with your sensual wiles?"

"Would it have worked?"

Neal gives him another speaking look. "I sent you birthday cards. From prison. What do you think?"

"Oh," Peter says again, still looking surprised, but also uncharacteristically zen for a man who's sitting on a bed that he's going to share, in a few hours, with another man who just confessed to having a crush on him.

"Oh," he says, once more, and Neal notices an honest-to-god blush creeping along his cheeks, which is almost too adorable for words.

Peter notices Neal noticing his blush and glares, which makes Neal grin even wider.

"Whatever you're thinking – and don't tell me, I don't want to know – you need to stop thinking it right now."

Neal protests, "I was just making a list of suspicious places on the ship that we might need to investigate, that's all!"

"This is not the movies," Peter says firmly. "We are not, under any circumstances, going to be… 'making out to avoid suspicion,' Neal, honestly, where do you come up with this stuff?"

~*~

"We're not," Peter insists, as the footsteps draw closer to the captain's office.

"I must have missed the list of better ideas you came up with!" Neal hisses, trying to straighten all the piles of paper they had been rifling through.

"You think the bad guys haven't seen any crime movies?" Peter whispers frantically. "If the smugglers were as dumb as they'd have to be to fall for your stupid excuse, we'd have caught them already!"

The footsteps pause in front of the door, and Neal throws a flash of a grin at Peter and pins him to the wall behind the desk.

"I'll try not to enjoy this too much," he murmurs.

For the first couple of seconds, the kiss is definitely lackluster – then, Peter gets his sea legs under him. One of his arms wraps tightly around Neal's waist; the other hand sinks into his hair, tilting Neal's head until their mouths meet at the perfect angle, and Neal moans happily. He brings a hand up to the top buttons of Peter's shirt, and starts undoing them one by one, taking his time, making each one a tease, and pausing every so often to comb his fingers through Peter's hair, or stroke the planes of his face.

When they finally break apart for air, both of them are breathing hard, and Peter's face is flushed.

"I don't hear anything," he gasps. "Whoever it was must have just walked past the closed door."

"Lucky us," Neal says cheerfully. "In other news, just before the footsteps, I found the discrepancy in the blueprints that shows where they're hiding the cash."

They discuss the aforementioned blueprints, and the best way to get down to the storage compartment, on the way back to their cabin. As they get ready for bed, they detour into a debate about whether the company that advertised the Titanic as "unsinkable" should have been liable for damages owed to the survivors and families. In the middle of a tangent about David Ogilvy, the father of modern advertising, Peter climbs into bed, still arguing vociferously, and Neal crawls after him, defending the right of pharmaceutical companies to run ads marketing their products directly to the consumer.

"I realize that it's another American exception," he explains, resting his head on the left side of Peter's chest, listening absently to his heartbeat. "But it's a slippery slope! If we disallow pharmaceutical advertisements because we think consumers should rely on the expert opinions of their doctors, eventually it gets to the point where Oprah—"

"We're cuddling, aren't we," Peter interrupts.

"I was wondering when you were going to notice," Neal says comfortably.

Peter sighs. "I'm assuming there's pretty much no chance that I can get you to stay on your side of the bunk."

"The bunk is three feet wide, Peter," Neal mumbles. "If we divide it up into sides, we're both going to need to lose about 20 pounds."

Peter sighs again – Neal can feel his chest expand and contract under his cheek.

"Good night, Neal," Peter says, resigned.

"Good night, Peter," Neal parrots back, smiling secretively.

~*~

"Wuzzat?" Neal asks muzzily – something is shaking him. He looks up to see Peter leaning over him, shaking his shoulder, looking extremely irate.

"Those blueprints were folded," he says grimly.

"Blueprints are large and unwieldy – it's not unusual for them to be folded or rolled—" Neal tries; Peter interrupts him.

"They were folded up small," he says, "small enough to fit into a man's pants pocket, Neal."

"That _is_ unusual," Neal muses.

"You found them right away, didn't you?" Peter points an accusing finger at Neal. "You probably found them in the first ten seconds, and then you _hid_ them in your _pants_, because you wanted to increase the odds that someone would come along while we were still in there, so that you could live out your lame cop movie _thing_!"

"I want to speak to my lawyer," Neal attempts – Peter's eyes narrow dangerously.

Neal makes another sally. "You know, it's not really any worse than you subpoenaing Elizabeth's eBay bids to get her an anniversary present—"

That line of reasoning doesn't look like it's going to be a winner, either, judging by the look on Peter's face.

"I'm sorry, all right?" Neal says, holding up his hands like a peace offering. "I'm really, really sorry, and I'll never—"

"Are you? Really?" Peter asks, and Neal pauses. There's moonlight trickling through the cabin window, and he can see Peter's face very clearly, just inches above his own. Peter's eyes are intent, and it's not that Neal _can't_ lie. It's more that—

"No," he admits, shrugging.

"Hah," Peter says triumphantly. "I knew it."

Neal rolls his eyes and starts to say, "Remembering the exact dimensions of my ant labyrinth does not actually signify that you know everything there is to kn—"

The kiss is so swift that Neal hardly has a chance to enjoy it before Peter retreats, looking a little taken aback at his own daring.

"Hah," Neal says softly, looking up through his lashes with a slow smile. "I knew it."

Peter reluctantly smiles back before breaking away and lying back down. His voice hoarse, he says, "Tomorrow, when the ship makes port, we'll tell the Bureau about the blueprints, and then fly home."

"Back to the real world," Neal murmurs.

"This isn't real?" asks Peter, raising an eyebrow.

"It's as real as you want it to be," Neal says neutrally, because he's an excellent poker player and there are suddenly a lot of chips on the table.

Peter looks uncomfortable, and for a minute, Neal thinks he's going to get exactly what he's expecting. Then Peter mumbles, "I'm not—there are things, from… here, that—that I want to, you know, take back with me. I don't want to… leave everything that's on this boat… on this boat."

Neal considers this.

"I really hope you're not talking about those Bermuda shorts, because they really are completely atrocious."

"I'm not talking about the damn shorts, Neal."

"Oh."

"Although, actually, I think they're very stylish," Peter muses.

Neal looks at him, appalled.

"The look on your face," Peter says, cracking up – Neal tests his hypothesis that kissing Peter would be an extremely effective way to shut him up.

The scientific method triumphs.

~*~

The next day, at breakfast, waiting for the ship to dock and their case to be over, Neal and Peter get drawn into another conversation with their fellow passengers.

"And what do you do for a living?" a man with a charming Southern accent asks Neal.

"He's a thief," Peter replies, and Neal turns to give him a horrified look.

"…because he stole my heart," Peter concludes, with just the smallest twinkle in his eye.

"Not bad, old man," Neal murmurs, grinning.

"Well," Peter says modestly, shrugging, "I learned from the best."


End file.
